


Frayed Wolf

by TellMeNoAgain



Series: Monster Mash and Fall Feels October 2020 [11]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BDSM, But John Knows How to Tame It, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Dominance, Established Relationship, Hypervigilance is a Bitch, John is the Dominant BTW, M/M, Sensory Scene, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Submission, The Dominant Bottoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:54:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27944885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: Derek's been a lone wolf for so long that he struggles to switch off the hypervigilance necessary to his survival.Derek struggles with it, until John takes all of the struggle out of it.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Sheriff Stilinski
Series: Monster Mash and Fall Feels October 2020 [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956196
Comments: 14
Kudos: 33





	Frayed Wolf

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Orchidaexa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orchidaexa/gifts), [personaljunkdrawer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/personaljunkdrawer/gifts).



> This fic is entirely inspired by the feelings personaljunkdrawer calls out of me with their work in progress, unpublished fic La Vie en Rose. Bless you for making every LVeR snip day a better day, and for letting me warm myself in the glow of "good and safe." Hopefully you are flattered and not offended by my own "small and safe" attempt to capture that warmth and reflect it back at you. 
> 
> This fic is part of of my campaign to get Derek Hale all the Nice Things he deserves. My campaign is spurred by Orchidaexa's unwavering belief that Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, and her cheerleading commitment to him _getting them or else._
> 
> Special thanks to all the people on the Writer Buddies Discord server- you cheerlead the best, and your inspiration makes me soar to new adventures.

“Hey,” says John lowly, urgently, and Derek pauses, the two of them clustered tightly by the door. “Come over, tonight. Looking a little frayed.”

Derek licks his lips, and looks to Peter across the room, who raises a caustically teasing eyebrow. 

Derek nods. 

“Yeah, yes, I’d- I’d like that,” he murmurs back. Peter smiles wickedly, because he _knows_ , he delights in what he thinks he _knows_ , but does nothing more, doesn’t even comment. It does help Derek, Peter sees that, and Peter doesn’t know everything. He loves crowing about it and teasing Derek about it, but if he thought it was bad for Derek, he wouldn’t be smiling.

“Good,” says John quietly, and then they’re out the door and headed toward their separate cars.

Despite their many, many connections and ways their lives are pulled together, intertwined, they’re mostly separate individuals going about their separate business. 

Mostly separate, except for the Pack, and Pack business, and for Stiles, and Stiles business, and for… this. This thing they do. Sometimes. When Derek really needs it, when he’s so very frayed and about to snap.

When he _needs_ it, John is always there for him, ready to take it.

~~~

Derek slips through the front door, sliding the keys back into his pocket, closing the door behind him as quietly as he can and locking it. Scott’s turn to prowl on safety patrol, with Peter volunteering at the last second to make sure things are extra quiet around the Stilinski household, and Derek could _cry_ about how actually sweet and supportive Peter manages to be sometimes. It reminds him of the way his uncle had been, before the fire and the damage and the- the _everything_ Derek carries, too, that twists _him_ up in knots, as well.

They’re survivors, Derek knows. Survivors who barely manage to keep surviving day to day, in different ways. One of these days, Peter’s going to play one of his sick games with someone who won’t hesitate to put him down, he’s going to-

“Derek,” calls John from the stairs, jogging down them. “Time to stop that.”

Derek doesn’t need to ask _stop what_. His hands are trembling, his senses extended through the door still, ready and alert, noting the neighbor’s dog whining and pawing at their back door and filing that information as _potentially relevant_. He can hear the hum of the refrigerator and he should tell John to clean the coils again, it sounds like it was three months ago when it needed cleaning. He can smell each and every decaying meal in the trashcan, can tell it’s been weeks since Stiles came home for a visit without checking the group calendar to confirm. He’s- he needs-

“Hey,” says John softly, putting a hand out to cup his cheek. “I said time to _stop.”_

Derek tries for a smile, a grin, something to reassure John that he’s _fine_ , he’s _handling it_ , and John’s eyes narrow.

“No, I mean it,” mutters John. “I mean _stop_ , Derek.”

Derek takes a deep breath and _tries._

“Okay, no, not fair,” chuckles John, shaking his head a little at himself, eyes rueful. “C’mon, let’s go upstairs. Shoes off.”

It’s a gentle reminder, and it makes Derek’s eyes burn. John’s always so careful, so alert. He catches every detail, on nights like these, his fast mind sorting through all of the details and making everything _right_. Derek slides out of his shoes and jacket, tossing the jacket on a hook. He follows John back up the stairs, his steps light where John’s are heavier, and into the man’s bedroom.

Everything in it smells of _John_ , and it’s such an ingrained response now, this space where John sleeps for eight hours, jerks off and farts and drops sweaty socks and undershirts in the hamper by the closet. Stiles’s scent here was always faint, but it’s almost non-existent now, with Stiles in college and exploring adulthood. Derek breathes deeply- he always does- his nostrils flaring, and John soothes, “There’s my guy. Deep breaths. You’re here. I gotcha.”

John’s not a wolf, so he doesn’t _know- but he’s very good at guessing_ , Derek interrupts himself. John doesn’t know how important scent is- even in human face- to a were. He has no clue, but he’s so good at guessing, so good at thinking it through and tracking Derek’s response to him. The first night had been in his room, Derek’s nostrils plugged with tears, and after he’d blown his nose, he’d sniffed and sniffed and John had watched, and Derek knew when John drew him up the stairs the second time they’d done this, that he had watched and noted each and every one of Derek’s small reactions. Watched and noted, and used them ruthlessly, to get Derek what Derek needs.

“Deep breaths, wolf,” says John quietly, slipping out of his slacks and socks. “Strip.”

It’s shedding skin like a snake, to strip here, in this room. He doesn’t realize how much wearing clothes _irritates_ his sense of touch until they’re off, again, off and shoved under the bed, a childish move on Derek’s part that always brings a fond smile to John’s face. He stands, then, while John, still in boxers and a t-shirt, sits on the trunk at the end of the bed, and says, “Your choice, wolf.”

 _Great moon_ , what a choice John offers him, in this room.

The four walls slip away from Derek’s awareness, the sound of the fridge refiled as _irrelevant to need_ , and he almost can’t hear the neighbor’s dog, here, in this space John builds for him.

He breathes, and looks down at John, who sits and waits, hands upturned on his knees. The man’s eyes are always so damn kind and patient, truly giving him the _choice_ , and Derek’s throat closes on a bitter laugh as he steps forward to stand before the man, probably too close, probably- but the heartbeat in that chest is calling him closer, strong and steady, soothing. “Please,” he breathes, into the safe air scented with the man who creates the room’s safety, “Please John, will you- can you- can you-”

John’s eyes crinkle just a little as he says gently, “I can take it from you, you just have to kneel, and give it to me, Derek.”

Derek’s breath catches in his throat on the sense of longing, and abruptly he’s mad because it’s stupid to feel longing when he can just _have_ what he wants. He kneels, probably too quickly, and then hunches, before taking a deep breath. John hasn’t flinched, even though Derek had used too much speed, supernatural speed, to get into this position. He hasn’t flinched and he doesn’t twitch, as Derek breathes and breathes, feeling the knot tight in his chest unravel in the _best_ way, as he leans to one side and places his head _so gently_ on the hand atop John’s knee.

“Good boy,” whispers John, and Derek’s eyes slide shut, so relieved. Time passes, as he matches his breathing to John’s slow and steady breathing, deep in his chest. He feels like he can hear every puff of oxygen as it hits John’s bloodstream, and, miraculously, _nothing else_.

It’s always such a shock, how John can fill every available space for thought in Derek’s mind so effortlessly, can shut down all of the check-recheck-check-again noise.

John makes a pleased little rumble, deep in his chest, and raises his other hand, carding it through the hair Derek keeps just a little bit longer, now, for him, for John, for his hand, for this exact moment. He tucks it back, off of Derek’s face, tracing Derek’s hairline and ear, across the nape of his neck, and then back to card again, riffling slowly through the tendrils, so achingly slow and light, that Derek feels like every single individual hair shifts into the path of that touch _on purpose_ , to be stroked and soothed.

It goes on and on and on, and becomes the only thing Derek cares about in the whole world, his breathing matching John’s, his heart rate slowing until it matches, too. He can feel the tension ebb out of him, his crouch before John becoming a sag into John’s space, John’s body, John’s strength. “There, good,” croons John. “Give it to me, give it all to me, Derek. I gotcha, Smallwolf.”

Derek whines a little at the nickname, rubbing his cheek against the hand it rests on, and John snickers. “Yeah, not so small, are you? But you’re small for me, right, little wolf? Here? For me?”

Derek considers the words as they reel past him, considers how good they feel. Small. Small and safe, for John. Yes.

“Yes,” he says, his tongue strangely thick again.

“Yeah, my little Smallwolf, just for me,” agrees John, his quiet voice almost playful. Derek likes those words _just for me_ , _my little Smallwolf_ , and lets them drag him even further down into the depths of John’s safety.

“I have a treat for us,” John adds, after another long few minutes of breathing, safety sinking through Derek’s body, the scent of John _so close_ and the heat of the man’s body a palpable force against Derek’s naked skin. “Kneel back when you’re ready.”

 _Ready will never happen_ , thinks Derek muzzily, lips pursing slightly.

John chuckles. “Okay, fair. You work on getting ready, Derek, because you’re going to like this treat, I know you will. But don’t rush it. I like you just the way you are, right now.”

Derek slumps back down against John’s knee, hardly aware if he somehow still _had_ tension or if he had tensed up again, or why and when he wasn’t already as boneless as his body could get. It’s not important, anyway, because his soul doesn’t end just under his skin, anymore. He’s hyper-aware again, but not of the whole world, anymore, just of that space between him and John, between his skin and John’s touch. He can sense the fingers microseconds before they stroke down his cheek and chin and neck, fingers slow and lazy, sifting against the frayed edges of Derek’s soul as they glide playful across his skin. It should probably tickle, but it doesn’t. It feels _powerful_.

But not overwhelming. Never overwhelming, with John. He’s never- never once-

“Please, Derek?” asks John wistfully, his fingers continuing to stroke against Derek’s skin, the hyper-aware focus building up tension to crash in tiny invisible wakes behind the motion, making Derek sigh softly, and sink further. “I want to give us a treat.”

John _wants_.

Derek wants, too. He aches with it. He aches with how much he needs whatever it is that John _wants_. He can’t- can’t remember- what- is he supposed to do something, now? John wants something. He wants-

“Sit up,” coaxes John. “Sit back, Smallwolf, I’ll be right here.” His toes slide in, to touch Derek’s knees, and Derek nods against John’s hands, and lets them lift his head, slowly, slowly, cradling it so gently as he moves for those hands, until he’s upright, again. One of the thumbs from one of the hands rubs his chin, spreading wetness that quickly dries, and Derek realizes he was drooling with a sense of detached wonder. He does that, sometimes, and John never minds. 

So Derek doesn’t have to mind, either.

“A treat,” croons John, twisting, his bare feet coming up to rest heels on Derek’s thighs and tap gently against Derek’s body. Derek’s mind focuses on the new centers of that sensation of soul-touch-energy-leaving-ripples and his lips part, hips scooting him forward just a bit as if to draw him the feet higher up. “Shhhh,” hushes John. “A treat, Smallwolf, for both of us.”

A heady scent fills the air at the sound of a glass jar uncapping, thick and cloying, and mingled with the scent of John. One of the things from the shower, guesses Derek, with his eyes drifted shut. John has so many soaps, and he’s uncapped one of them, here.

He’s wrong though, as John’s hands glide through the air, closer and closer. “Look, Derek,” encourages John. “Can you open your eyes, for me? I know it’s hard.”

It is. It is hard. Derek frowns, and John chuckles. “I promise,” he tells Derek earnestly, “you’ll like it, and then it won’t be a surprise. It’s a treat, I promise.”

Derek raises his lids with herculean effort, some tension threading through his body again, ready for the onslaught of adding another sense to the deafening clamor inside his head. But it’s just John, in front of him. John’s white t-shirt, and his light gray boxers, and his familiar legs and arms and- oh.

“Oh,” breathes Derek, and his body flows forward abruptly. He licks a stripe across one hand eagerly, and then the other, the sweetness of the flavors exploding on his tongue impossible to categorize, at first. 

“I told you,” chuckles John. “I told you it was a treat.”

Derek chases the stickiness, then, the great globs of red that are perched precariously on each digit, smeared in streaks across John’s palms. “‘S _good_ ,” he mumbles, and John laughs quietly with obvious delight. 

“I told you,” John chides gently, “you deserve a treat, for being so small, and so good, wolf. Just for me. So good, and so small, you deserve some jelly. Go ahead, lick,” he soothes, as Derek settles down to do just that.

He _loves_ to lick John, on his knees like this- to nuzzle his nose and shift John’s hands in the air, slide his tongue between his lips and taste. Now he chases the sweet burst of what is definitively _strawberry_ into and out of every crack and crevice and wrinkle, around nailbeds and into the dimples of every knuckle. John turns his hands obligingly, laughing and chuckling every so often, the sounds he makes a symphony of delight to Derek’s ears. He can hear the chuckles deep in John’s chest, beside where his heart beats, and he loves how when he concentrates hard enough, he can follow those silent chuckles up until they meet air and become audible approval. 

He licks and licks John’s hands, until his tongue tastes nothing but his own spit, and then he keeps licking, loving the taste of his saliva on John’s salty skin. 

John sighs, after a long time has passed, and says, gently, “Another treat, Derek?”

Derek slips his mouth over John’s thumb and sucks, to hear the man’s intake of breath.

“No, I wasn’t thinking that, wolf,” chuckles John, rubbing Derek’s tongue with his thumb. “More _jelly_ , Derek?”

Derek nods eagerly, and John rumbles another approving laugh at him. “So glad you like the treat,” he teases Derek. “I do, too, very much,” he assures Derek, presenting Derek with fingers smeared with red globs again.

Derek whines, and begins to lick, shocked at the sharp burst of sweet strawberry against his senses, as if it were the first taste, again.

He licks and he licks, chasing the flavor all over the planes of John’s hands, until John’s hands smell and taste like Derek, again, Derek and just John, and somehow the flavor is _even sweeter than strawberry jam_.

It feels good, to lick and lick and never be told to stop, but on the edge of Derek’s total and complete awareness of John is the knowledge that John smells _muskier_ , now. Derek begins to feel an answering tightness in his own body, along his spine and thighs and dick, and without quite realizing that he’s begun, he whines a little, and begins to suck at John’s wrists and knuckles, dragging his lips across the flesh and then, as the musky scent of John responds to _that,_ nipping just a little with his teeth.

“Oh,” gasps John, shifting. “Do we _like treats_ , Smallwolf?”

Derek tongues up the two middle fingers of John’s right hand and then slides them into his mouth abruptly, loving the sharp shocking way they touch the roof of his mouth. They taste of nothing but Derek and John, and as much as Derek had enjoyed his treat, he deeply craves that mixture in his mouth, even more. John separates his fingers, stretching them wide, before collapsing them and withdrawing them from Derek’s mouth. “You have such good ideas,” he praises Derek, and Derek preens, just a little, fawning up at John with eyes that have gone half-lidded. “Do you want your other treat? Already?”

Derek considers how he feels, and whether he needs to- to do anything more, with his time with John. He feels- _really good_ , and clean and- and hungry, needy- _ready_. “Yes,” he says thickly, followed by, “ _more_.”

“More it is,” agrees John, and Derek loves that, loves the way John is always so agreeable, when they’re like this, safe in their den, safe here, where John’s scent is the only scent, really, fresh and sharp and old and layered, with hints of Derek wafting through, now, winding around it all and settling comfortably in the air.

John helps Derek to stand, and guides him to the bedside. Derek stretches, feeling fantastic, and crawls up on top, shoving back the already-rumpled covers, until they’re at the foot of the bed and there’s nothing but wrinkled sheets and pillows for miles and miles. He huffs happily, and dives face-first into the heavy scent of John, strongest here, where he tosses and turns for eight hours at night, where he jerks off and drools and coughs and cums, and it’s so thick, here, so layered that Derek could burrow and burrow and never stop finding new layers. 

John is chuckling quietly, sliding out of his clothes and leaving them on the floor, which is not nearly as good a place to secure them as shoving them under this bed for safekeeping, Derek notes smugly. The mattress dips under John’s weight as he glides on top of it, settling down beside Derek and running a slow, confident, teasing finger in swirls across the spiral design imprinted on Derek’s back, taking detours to Derek’s biceps and hips, a quick tour of Derek’s thighs and ass. Derek stretches as the finger returns to his back, arching contentedly into the contact and connection, feeling again that buzz of his frayed-soul-outside-body-touching-John, the riveting ripple of intense focus that even one lightly-skimming finger leaves in its wake.

He shivers, and John leans closer, down, the heat of his body sinking into Derek from the side, at first, and then, as John wraps first a leg around Derek’s thigh, and then nuzzles near his ear, the sinking heat becomes a flame. “Are you cold?” breathes John, teasing only a little, making Derek grin, because John is _funny_. “Because you’re shivering, Smallwolf.”

Derek shakes his head, delighted that John is teasing and funny, now. He loves- loves this bed and loves- loves this time and loves-

His mind shies away from the thought and he lets it, allowing it to shift to, he loves this _feeling_ , John’s breath against his cheek, his skin pressed like a blanket to Derek’s, every chest hair that tickles or bone that grinds creating a full-body awareness that John is _here_ , with him, in the bed and delighted, delighted by everything Derek is and everything Derek wants, and- 

John’s laugh rumbles in his chest for a breath before it makes its way out to the air around them. “You are so good for my ego,” he tells Derek, and Derek grins, again, because John is _funny_ , and Derek likes that about him.

“My silly little wolf,” murmurs John, clearly pleased. “What’s got you in this smiley place, today?”

There’s no need to answer. Derek knows John just likes to talk, sometimes.

“I like it,” declares John, and Derek nods agreement. He likes it, too. The sheets are rougher than the ones on his bed, slightly scratchy, and pungent with the scent of John. He rubs his cheek, and then his chest, wiggling just a little, enjoying the way the cotton scratches, just a little, just- how he can _feel_ it against his skin. It drags, in a way that John’s callused fingers never do, rough across his sensitive soul, which is still laying just above the surface of his skin, invisible, but there. He knows it’s out there, because he can feel it, everywhere it rises up to kiss John’s fingertips.

Everything feels so good, and nothing is too much. It’s all _just right_.

“Hey, wolf,” croons John, eventually, “If you want to hump something else, I have a few ideas.”

 _Oh._ “Oh, yes,” mumbles Derek, eagerly. That’s a great idea, that’s the best idea. He _loves_ \- skin is so smooth, so silky, and John has hair, and if Derek rubs against John, the scents all get stronger, and stronger, until they fill the whole room and Derek’s mingles with John’s and it’s even better than rubbing against the sheets. Sometimes, if he rubs and rubs and rubs against John, John rubs back, and then there’s the sticky salty wetness of sweat to lick up, to suck from John’s chest hair and temple, to mouth off of his shoulders and fingers and to mine from the creases of his elbows and knees. 

And sometimes- oh, _sometimes_ , there’s even more to suck clean.

“Here,” chuckles John, pushing gently and pulling on Derek’s body, until John is laying propped up on the pillows and Derek is stretched out along his right side, leg and thigh between John’s legs and thighs, chest to chest, Derek’s head tipped into the junction of John’s neck and shoulder.

Derek’s _favorite_ place to be. He rubs, tentatively at first, feeling the glide of his smooth flesh against John’s wiry, hairy, muscled frame with a shock. His stomach feels so good against John’s stomach, he thinks with a gasp, because it’s _true_. John’s arm supports him, slides down to rest just above his ass, and Derek pushes in with his hips, encouraged by that touch. 

It’s just this side of overwhelming, and maybe it _would_ be overwhelming, if it wasn’t here, in their den, where John’s scent mingles with Derek’s like it's delivering a personal invitation to _stay forever_. Where the rhythm of John’s breathing and heartbeat overwhelm the need to listen to anything else, focusing Derek’s attention on the only two sounds his universe needs to echo. Derek slides his body against John’s and listens to the little encouraging noises John makes and only realizes they’re actual words by their rhythm, the ability to understand the content gone in the glide of _John’s_ _skin_ against his soul. 

It feels so good that Derek lets his mouth seal on John’s shoulder, cheek pressed to the man’s neck. He sucks there, slowly, feeling the comfort of that stimulus, too, licking and lapping and laving as John begins to sweat and the sounds he makes begin to have a low urgency underlining them. John chuckles, and the sound rumbles through Derek, again, deep and shattering. He whines in response, needy and breathless.

John shifts his body and untraps his arms, lifting Derek up with a press of his shoulder into Derek’s mouth and his hands, holding Derek above him by inches- so many inches of separation- until Derek calms and is able to look down at him, panting with the effort of not pressing back down, with need, need for more, for more John-

John smiles, open and carefree and slightly awed. “Do you want to ride, wolf? Or be ridden?”

Derek shakes his head clearer yet, rubbing his lower half against John’s hip.

“Oh, I can feel you, no need to tell me what you need, Der, I can feel you jutting against my hip bone. Do you want a soft place to put that, warm and wet, wolf? Is that what you want, tonight?”

Derek gasps and hangs his head, thinking about that, thinking about soft and warm and wet, thinking about how it feels when John lets him- lets- gives him- takes-

“Yes, I think you do,” murmurs John softly, and Derek feels tears form in his eyes. “Shhhh, it’s okay to want that, Derek, it’s good, here, you know I love it, I love it, Derek.”

It is okay to want, thinks Derek, reaching a trembling hand up and tracing a line of sweat down the side of John’s face. John wants Derek to want. He loves that Derek wants, he’s coaxed out and teased up every want Derek has to give him, one by one, cherishing each thing, giving _treats_. Derek licks his lips and dives back to lap at the sweat on John’s neck, and smiles when the man shouts a laugh. John is so funny, and no one knows that but Derek.

“Here, let me-” says John, and then he stretches, and reaches for something, and when the cap of the bottle pops, Derek’s head pops up, excited. “Shhh,” soothes John. “Shhh, you just enjoy yourself. I’ll do all the work.”

Derek frowns, because when he wants John- when he wants _other things_ , John does all the work, too. John- he- “Shhh,” soothes John, dropping the bottle and running fingertips up and down Derek’s flesh, everywhere he can reach, until Derek shudders and begins to rub again, lost in how _good_ it feels, how John knows how to _touch_ just right, just the right amount, touch Derek’s soul and his skin and swirl them both, make him feel _so good_. He rubs, where it feels good, and sucks at John’s chin and neck and shoulder and bicep, and he feels John shift and move on the bed, and hears the squelch of the lube, and he smiles, rubbing against John, because John said to _enjoy himself_.

He does.

He really does.

John’s heartbeat speeds up, jumping higher and higher, faster and faster, until Derek whines to hear it, and it slows, John dipping his head and kissing Derek’s forehead, whispering heavily, “Almost ready, Smallwolf, just- one more finger, for you, big guy.”

Derek whines, because he can hear the sounds and feel the tremble of John’s body, his own responses beginning to crash around under his skin, John’s stomach wet with his precum, wet with John’s precum and Derek’s precum mixing together with every slow rub of Derek’s dick against the hairy skin of John’s treasure trail.

“Oh-okay,” sighs John, shifting them both with strong hands that Derek admires briefly, until Derek is settled between John’s legs. John grabs for a pillow and shoves it inelegantly under his hips, the first impatient move he’s made all night, and Derek feels a thrill, as he always does, at how much John likes this, too.

John’s hands, soft and gentle, are still strong when they line up Derek’s dick to his body, line it up and hold it still at the fluttering muscle there. “Slow,” he warns Derek, as he always warns Derek, and Derek nods, barely breathing as he breeches the man’s body. 

“Goood,” hisses John, as Derek rubs in, his dick clenched by silk-wrapped steel, the muscles inside John’s ass as defined and strong as the muscles of his thighs or biceps or shoulders. Derek could rub just like this, just his head, for hours and hours, but he remembers- remembers that John likes- how John howls when he- and he digs for that deeper spot, gasping and choking on desire and the musky scent of John in every mouthful of air.

“Please,” sputters John, “Love of- Der, please, fuck, go on, baby, fuck, deeper, go ahead, c’mon, Smallwolf.”

Derek is shocked, again, always shocked, at how John loves this. John shouldn’t- it shouldn’t work this way, he thinks blearily, suddenly uncertain. John should- if he’s in charge, if he-

“Shhhhh,” soothes John, his hands flying up to grip Derek’s shoulders and draw him down, propping himself up just a bit, knees splayed and hips canted and curled up, to press a kiss to Derek’s cheek. “Just like this, Smallwolf. With me, right here, shhhhh.”

Yes. With John. In their den. With _John_. “With you,” agrees Derek in a muffled, strange-sounding voice, even to his own ears choked and thick. 

“You need my fingers?” offers John, but it’s too many words, too fast, and Derek shakes his head, unable to follow them. John chuckles, and that feels so good, that feels right, John being happy and bright, in this room with Derek, John being delighted by Derek, here, on this bed. Never shocked, never surprised, always so happy and strong and delighted.

John lifts up a hand and Derek surges down, to lick the fingers. They taste like lube and John and that’s not right- they’re not- they’re supposed to taste like Derek and John and _nothing else_ , thinks Derek stubbornly. “Pouty wolf,” breathes John, as Derek begins to rub and rock into him, feeling the vise of John’s flesh give and tighten around him, impossibly, licking and sucking at the two fingers in his mouth only to bob back and take in the next two. He licks and sucks John’s fingers, and his hips fuck and fuck into John’s warmth, and he hears his rumble begin to build, low, in his gut. 

“Ohh, yess,” breathes John, which means he can hear it, too. “Yesss, Derek, good little wolf, my good wolf, yessss, just what I want. Let me take it, Derek, shhhhh.”

The rumble builds, bursting from his chest as a low puttering growl, as he snarls now, on John’s fingers, biting away the last remnants of the lube, chewing and gnawing and licking until it’s only him, there, him and John on John’s fingers and hand, the line of his spit and drool sliding down John’s forearm to drip and pool on the man’s chest.

His cock is a heavy thing, and his soul kisses inside John as deeply as he can shove it, against those slickened walls that feel like sin and heaven with every thrust, as he rumbles and ruts and John’s eyes close, his head falls back, every line his his neck taut, the smell of his release- of _John_ \- careening around the room and through Derek’s entire nervous system. His walls flutter and clench, and Derek snarls, and fucks harder, shaking John’s frame for several thrusts before he, too, gives in to the overwhelming sensation of _pushing his desire into John_ , spill by spill by spurting spill of seed and success and sensational craving.

It shakes through him, rips up his spine, and it’s only the safety of John, of John’s scent and John’s body, that means he doesn’t lose himself in the wolf. He’s safe, buried in John, in this place John has carved out for them, this place where Derek can build slow and release just as slowly, growling and groaning and grumbling into John’s hand, John’s fingers clenching suddenly and releasing, and then rubbing against Derek’s tongue softly, gently.

“Hey,” says John, in a tone of delighted wonder. “So good, you did- look, Smallwolf, no rips, no bites and no rips!”

Derek pants down at him, and John takes advantage of his confusion to slide his fingers out of Derek’s mouth and trace them down the side of Derek’s face. “Shhh, you did so good, wolf, did that feel good? God, it looked good, it looked good, you feel so good inside, little one.”

Derek soaks in the praise and then shoves the pillow under John to one side, so that he can crush the man to the mattress, and press anxious kisses on the man’s collar bone, lick up the scent of sweat on his neck, nuzzle and lick every available inch of flesh.

“Shhhh,” soothes John, running gentle fingertips up and down Derek’s spine, “That was _good_ , Smallwolf. You did so well, that looked good and that felt good and _oh_ , Derek, shhhhh.”

It’s okay to lick as much as he wants, so he does, the need becoming less frantic and more caring, and, finally, soft and sleepy.

John hitches his hips and slides himself off of Derek, and Derek doesn’t even whine at the loss of that tense silken sheath. “Shhhh,” croons John anyway. “Shhh, little wolf. You’re shaking, Derek. Let me get the blanket up, at least.”

He tries to twist out from under Derek, but Derek can’t let him, and so he relaxes back with a puff of laughter- always laughter, always delight, here, never shocked, never disappointed, and Derek loves that about this den and this bed. John smiles up at him and says, “You’re cold, and you’re going to regret pinning me here,” but the words are just things John says, he loves to talk when they’re like this, together, but he doesn’t need Derek to listen. His hands go back to Derek’s side, rubbing gently, tantalizing, and he kisses Derek’s shoulder like Derek is made of spun sugar and will crack apart if he presses too hard. 

Derek _feels_ like spun sugar, every nerve ending in his body reaching out for more of John’s body, craving it, feeling the electricity of the man against his skin, feeling his soul connecting with John’s skin with a shock of recognition and need. He rubs, just a little, his stomach against the mess of John’s, the scent exploding into the air and making his mouth water again. His scent and John’s, twined around each other, everywhere, now, filling the space of their den.

“Shhh,” soothes John, fingers ghosting up and over the triskelion. “Shhhh.”

Derek gnaws at John’s collarbone and shivers, again.

“Okay, you really need a blanket,” chuckles John.

Derek snarls when John tries to move, but John is never afraid of him, not here, and so he teases, “Let me _help_ , Crankywolf.” He twists out from under Derek, and bends nearly in half to reach for the blankets at the end of the bed, and Derek _smells_ them, together, leaking out of John’s backside, and he groans. He rushes forward, licks a stripe between John’s cheeks, and then _keeps licking_.

John makes a small noise and then collapses, hands fisting in the blankets while Derek cleans his flavor from John, plunging his tongue against the pucker and chasing the taste, wanting as much as John can give him and still more.

John lets him lick and lick, and then grabs the blankets and twists again, fast, covering both of them with one quick movement that ends, somehow, with both of them pressed together, their heads on the pillows at the top of the bed, blankets coming gently to a floating rest over their bodies.

Derek quirks a grin at John- he can’t help it, John is so happy and delighted and it’s everywhere in this room, John’s happiness and delight, his musk and his pleasure. John grins back, and then Derek dips beneath the bed to suck the rest of John clean, too, chasing the taste of his own precum within John’s thicker flavor until all he can taste is John’s skin.

The sheets are wet with small smatters of drips and drops but that’s okay. The room will smell better for longer.

“I’d offer to return the favor,” chuckles John, “but I don’t have a tongue like yours, wolf.”

Derek grins at him, happy, and rubs the small leftover traces of John and John’s happiness into his skin.

“That’s not lotion, you know,” comments John, grinning. “Or if it is, it’s the worst kind of lotion. Zero medical applications. Do not apply to burns.”

Derek smiles and rubs until it’s all rubbed in safe. He’ll smell like John, now. 

John smells like him.

He sighs, and John kisses his cheek. “C’mere, wolf,” he says confidently, pulling Derek to him and kissing the top of his head. “You stay down if you want, or come up, I’ve learned my lesson about trying to leave the bed, but I’m not missing Saturday Night Live.” He grabs for the remote beside the bed, and Derek huffs, curling into John’s side and licking at the man’s neck.

“We’re taking a shower, later,” John tells him severely, but there’s humor in his voice.

Derek finds his own voice enough to say, “Maybe.” It could happen.

“And I’m changing the sheets, I’m not sleeping in sticky cum like a teenager,” John declares forcefully, flipping channels.

“Maybe,” Derek tells him again, rubbing his ankle across a random reachable wet spot under the blankets to get the scent rubbed in there, too. 

There’s a first time for everything, and John’s so agreeable, like this, that even if he does change the sheets, Derek can make sure the sheets smell just exactly right before they fall asleep. John laughs at some joke, his fingers ghosting over Derek’s side, pulling Derek in closer, and Derek hums, content. 

He needed this, tonight.

He really did.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to join us on the Discord server, it's always hopping! I can usually be found down in the Trigger Warning section with all the hardcore topics and the trash pandas who scream and screech and jostle each other. [WriterBuddies](https://discord.gg/4KWWccK)


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